What is it about a Panama hat? Other than the fact that mine is probably the only one in the country? The Vietnamese folks in my neighborhood call me Mr. Hat, for the ol’ Panama. Well, the expat community is relatively small here, especially among the writers, photographers and artsyt-fartsy types. Even people who have never met you eventually hear of you. So I’m now “the guy in the Panama hat,” to the expats. I have walked past a clutch of expats sitting at their beer, and one of them will look at me knowingly, maybe she’ll nod. I’ll pass one in the street and he’ll do a double take. A guy across the street will wave at me and point to his head to indicate his awareness of The Hat.

So, okay, I’m “the guy in the Panama hat,” to the foreigners. At least they know it’s a Panama. The locals, universally, call it a Cowboy hat. And I have failed at every attempt to educate them otherwise. They simply do not have a place in their consciousness for the idea of “Panama hat.” It’s a concept foreign to them. And when I tell them that a Panama comes from Equador, two countries most of them have never heard of, it only makes things more confusing. They simply nod politely and tell each other it’s a Cowboy hat. So it’s official. Mr. Hat is a cowboy, pilgrims. Whoopey tay aye ay. I don’t know how they square that with my English desert boots and khaki trousers. And I shall not delve into it. But yeeha, nonetheless. They just don’t have a folder on their mental desktop for this sort of data. They know that somehow I am frustrated at this state of affairs, but it has made no difference.

Until now! Halleluiah! Tidings of great joy! They have finally learned that it’s not a cowboy hat! I was coming down the alley when I tipped my hat to a matronly lady I’d never seen before. “Hello, Mr. Hat,” she says. In this, as in any other, neighborhood nobody is unknown to the locals. Nothing goes unobserved. There are no secrets. All of Vietnam is one great big small village. It turns out the woman is from Hanoi and is in town for her annual visit with her grandchildren. She’s an educated woman who speaks fair English, though of the old Hanoi school. That means she learned the Queen’s English from East German teachers in communist Berlin back in East Block days. She learned how to harangue the masses in English, but learned little or nothing about English speaking peoples. Nevertheless, Madame Professor (as I call her) is respected here for her learning and her many other fine accomplishments. She is a party member. People take her seriously.

As she and I chatted briefly she complimented me on my hat, a thing that happens almost daily. I thanked her, but said nothing more about it. I have learned not to point out that it isn’t a cowboy hat. I just let people think that I, and I suppose workers on the Panama Canal, are all cowboys.

“Where did you get it?” she asked me. It’s a question often asked. People want to get one for themselves. Knowing that any discussion of my headgear is going to create confusion, I just say that I got it in my home town, or in my country, something like that. And I add that they are not available here. So on this occasion I just said that I got it in California, and let it go at that.

Jungle drums, my friends! The grapevine! Urban telegraph! By the next evening the whole neighborhood knew of their mistake. All and sundry were disabused of the notion that I wear a cowboy hat. Madame P, with her mighty reputation as a scholar and speaker of English, has set them straight. They are now satisfied to know that Mr. Hat’s chapeau is a California hat! Fiat Lux! Eureka! No longer will Mr. Hat be frustrated with them! And why didn’t he tell them in the first place?

No doubt their relatives in San Jose and Riverside, California wear hats like Mr. Hat’s. They must now all send to them for their own California hats, now that they understand where they come from. According to Mr. Hat (at least in their own minds) they are only available in California, not in Vietnam. Workers on the Panama Canal must be from California. If all the people in California wear hats like Mr. Hat’s, and surely they must, do they all wear khaki trousers and Clark’s English desert boots, too? We have khaki trousers here. And we have counterfeit Clark’s English desert boots. They are as good as the counterfeit Rolex watches and lacoste shirts and Gucci bags our excellent counterfeiters make. Surely they can make a counterfeit California hat? That special palm frond he says the hat is made from must be from California. Well we have special palm fronds in Vietnam. The best special palm fronds! We should now all be able to have a California hat!

I sit at Madame’s Tea Terrace, reading the Vietnam News. The Prime Minister urges the agricultural sector to continue improving production. The National Assembly lauds the Laotian People’s Government’s efforts to strive to continue to perfect its practice in improving the organizing of cadres’ efforts at bringing under improved control many things that need improved control. In Hanoi they pin a medal on Daniel Ellsberg for undaunted courage. In Saigon the People’s Committee gives certificates to 25 middle school students recognizing them as examples of “Good Children.” An economic survey is set to stoke optimism.

My too-damned-swell Panama, no it’s a cowboy, no it’s a California hat sits on a corner of my table. It seems to mock me. “Thought you cut quite a swathe when you got here, didn’t you, Sport? Thought you’d impress them with my special Equadorian palm fronds, crushability, fashion history and all that.” Or is it consoling me? “Don’t worry, pal. So what if they don’t savvy? You still look like a million bucks when you’re under me.” Madame Professor stops by to assure me that she has rectified the Great Misunderstanding. She informs me that such efforts are necessary for harmony between peoples. And it helps to promote social progress and cohesion when all comrades are correctly informed. My papergirl wants to know if there are California hats made for ladies. There has been a suggestion in the neighborhood that I should be renamed as Mr. California. Slim the waiter wants to try on my hat, so he can see what he’ll look like when he emigrates to San Jose, California. He puts it on backward, as they invariably do when I let them try it on. It slips down to his nose. He wonders if all Californians have heads as fat as mine. “No, Slim,” I sigh. “But maybe Panamanian cowboys do.”

And that’s the news from somewhere in Saigon, where all the lady comrades are strong, all the counterfeiters are talented, and all the children are certified as “Good Children.”